Cumberbutcher

The production of Hamlet starring Benedict Cumberbatch is barely coherent, and I left at intermission. Cumberbatch himself is all shallow emoting and empty gesticulation, unsupported by any depth of mind or feeling. (I could accept a Hamlet who is Oedipal or even regressive, but I cannot accept one who is sexually, intellectually and emotionally prepubescent. We deserve a tragic hero, not a six-foot Peter Pan). The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to include seeing productions like this.